


name game

by sam_kom_trashkru



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Also Zendaya as the MJ Watson we Deserve, Avengers Team as a Family Because THATS WHAT WE DESERVE OKAY, Body Dysphoria, Child Abandonment, Coming Out, F/M, Found Family, Peter Needs a Hug, Peter Parker/New York - Freeform, Trans Character, Trans Peter Parker, lowkey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9414410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_kom_trashkru/pseuds/sam_kom_trashkru
Summary: Names are funny things.People who don't even know you yet choose just one, sometimes two, names that you have to live up to the rest of your life, predetermining your character based on namesakes and hidden meanings.Names are powerful.New York named Spiderman.It's okay, though, because Spiderman named himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Weird combination of Amazing Spiderman and the new Spiderman Homecoming Spideys, because Avengers and also precious lil baby Peter Parker.

 

May twenty-first, of the year 2000, was not a particularly interesting day by any means.

A man named Stanley finally saved up enough money to purchase his very own hot dog cart, a girl aced a physics exam with flying colors, and, in a private home in Queens with the assistance of a midwife, a beautiful baby daughter was born to two very proud parents.

Elle Madison Parker, from the moment she was born, was the apple of her parents’ eyes. They doted on her, their firstborn child, so smart and adventurous with her beautiful, long chocolate tresses and big inquisitive doe eyes.

“She's going to grow up to be the first female president of the United States,” Mary Parker proudly proclaimed.

“No,” Richard disagreed with a grin, “she’ll be a nobel prize awarded astrophysicist who will go on to pioneer space colonization.”

There was no doubt that this child, the combination of Richard and Mary Parker, was going to be great.

Just not, perhaps, in the way the parents expected.

* * *

 

Elle Parker makes her very first best friend on the second day of first grade.

She's old enough now to understand that her father works with some very important people, most notably Norman Osborn.

She’s also old enough to realize that Norman Osborn has a son the same age as her, and when Richard excitedly relays to his daughter that Harry will be attending public school with her, she's equal parts nervous and excited.

Harry Osborn, as it turns out, is the biggest brat on the entire planet.

Elle wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting, what with him being the only son of one of the most powerful and wealthy men in the country―the world, even―but she’d certainly been hoping for something a little… _nicer_ than what she got.

Within the first five minutes of meeting her, Harry called her sense of fashion tacky, proclaimed that public schooling in the American education system was beneath him, and shoved her into a path of pebbles.

Elle called him _pre-ten-tious_ ―a big word for a six year old, that she had enunciated carefully―and underwhelming, and Harry had sputtered as though she’d just cursed him within an inch of his life.

“What do you know?” he shot back, properly incensed. “You’re just a gross girl.”

Elle ignored the _gross_ part, and thought back to an interaction between her and her father.

_“Come on, baby, you got this,” Richard urged, delight evident in his eyes as Elle frowned over a math problem, years above what she was supposed to be doing._

_She studied it for a few moments longer before frustrated, angry tears began to swell in her little eyes._

_“I can’t do it,” she wailed, “I can’t do it, daddy, I’m just a little girl.”_

_“You are_ not _, just some little girl,” Richard responded vehemently, taking his daughter’s shoulders into his soft, comforting grip until her big, tear-filled brown eyes met his own, “you are a Parker. And Parkers can do anything.”_

“I’m not a gross girl,” she responded matter-of-factly, “I’m a Parker. I can do anything, which includes knowing when dumb boys are being pre _-ten-tious_.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Harry’s face broke into a crooked grin, thrusting his hand into Elle’s personal space.

“You’re alright, Parker,” he conceded once their right hands were grasped firmly together.

“You too, Osborn.”

From that point onward, they're inseparable. Richard and Norman are almost besides themselves with glee at how well the two seem to get along, and even at their young age, the two of them can understand when the adults make pointed eye contact whenever they’re together, and once Elle hears the word ‘marriage’ and _shudders_.

“Us?” Harry choked on his own laughter after Elle relayed the news. “ _Married_?”

“That’d be weird,” Elle agreed, “you’re like, my brother.”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, with a small smile. “Weird.” His grin widened, more teasing. “You consider me family, Parker? Aren’t going soft on me are you?”

“Not a chance Osborn, not a chance.”

If their classmates or their parents are confused as to why Harry strictly refers to his best friend, his partner-in-crime, by her last name, none of them say anything. Harry’s an Osborn, he’s entitled to his rich-kid quirks.

“I don’t want to marry Harry,” Elle told her mother frankly while Mary Parker’s hands busied themselves twisting through long chocolate tresses. _Your hair is so beautiful,_ she told her daughter often, _I think it’s my favorite part of you. Except for the brain, of course._ Mary braids Elle’s hair every night before she goes to sleep, so it has a curled bounce to it in the mornings, ready for school.

“Why not?” Mary asked, fingers still softly weaving their way through the mass of hair, pausing every now and then to gently press against Elle’s scalp. “He’s your best friend, and he’s very handsome for his age.”

Elle’s nose scrunched up in disgust.

“He’s _Harry_ ,” she sighed exasperatedly, as if those two simple words are explanation enough.

“Alright, alright,” Mary concedes, “I’ll tell your father to stop planning the wedding, then.”

Eight years old is much too young to figure out who you were going to marry, Elle decided. She had bigger, better things to worry about. Like how many containers of mac n cheese she could sneak into her mother’s shopping cart or how to finally beat her father at a round of hide-and-seek. She can worry about it later.

Eights years old is much too young for many things.

Including getting dumped on the porch of your aunt and uncle in the dead of the night with no explanation whatsoever.

“Be good,” Richard had said, tugging his wife away gently.

 _Be good_.

Those were the last words he offered the daughter he would never see again.

It was Harry Elle ran to, Harry who held her as she cried, Harry who narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists when people gave her odd looks, snarling at them that he could have them sued and sent away with a mere snap of his fingers if they so much _dared_ make fun of his best friend for crying.

“It’ll be okay, Parker,” he said, over and over, “it’ll be okay.”

Harry might have still had a father, but they were orphans, the two of them together. Elle’s parents were gone, killed in a plane crash. Harry’s mother had been stolen away from him as soon as he’d begun to live, and his father was too distant to even be considered a father.

“I’m your family,” he insisted, “you and me, Parker, like the lost boys in Neverland, we’ll make our way together.”

He promised that he would stay.

Richard and Mary Parker had promised their daughter the world.

Elle Parker learned much too soon that all promises were eventually broken.

Harry leaves, forced away by a father that does not understand him, who never will, and Elle cries and cries until she can cry no longer.

Three family members, gone.

She’s devastated, and so, _so_ angry.

 _Your hair is so beautiful_ . She feels the phantom fingers of a mother who is no longer there brush over her scalp, tugging softly to form braids. _I think it’s my favorite part of you. Except for the brain, of course._

Elle Parker was eight years old, almost nine now, and when her tears dried up she was so, _so_ angry, and a stolen pair of scissors and a great deal of childish recklessness, the hair that Mary Parker had so adored was chopped off.

 _There,_ Elle thought vindictively, _now you’ve lost something, too._

* * *

 

Elle Parker didn't have many friends.

She learned the hard way that everybody leaves eventually, and decided that getting attached wasn’t worth the inevitable pain, separation.

This life of solidarity was not prepared in any way whatsoever for the absolute hurricane that was the girl-next-door, Mary Jane Watson.

Elle has lived in Queens for four years, at age twelve, now, and Mary Jane thinks she’s the best thing since sliced bread. Or she must, because the wild-haired girl with skin the color of warm, lovely earth won’t leave her alone.

She wasn’t even aware of their friendship until one day, when Mary Jane plopped herself next to Elle for lunch.

“Why are you here?” Elle had asked.

“Where else would I sit?” Mary Jane questioned. “You’re my best friend, after all.”

According to Mary Jane, they’d been best friends since Elle threw long strands of horribly cut brown hair out of her window and down onto the street and they’d landed on a surprised MJ, who had grinned and rushed to ask her mother if she could cut all her hair off, too.

May had been horrified, upon seeing the state of her niece, but Mary Jane had told her that the hair looked _cool_.

After much verbal wrestling and a lot of crying, Elle convinced her aunt and uncle to let her keep her hair short, under the condition they be allowed to take her to the salon to get it cleaned up just a little bit. Eight-year-old hands didn’t make for a successful cosmetologist, apparently.

Mary Jane had shaved her head with her father’s stolen razor a week later, and had grinned all the while her parents forced her to grow it back.

So Elle found herself with a new best friend, and despite long years of absence, she can’t help but feel that she’s betraying Harry, a little bit. She missed the boy like she would miss an arm, and feels the ache of his absence every time she turns, waiting for someone to snarkily mumble besides her and no response comes.

Mary Jane was her best friend, but above all, before anything else, Mary Jane is an _actress._

She got cast for the school musical as soon as she auditioned; the lead role.

“Wait,” Elle’s brows furrow, “you’re playing a _boy_?”

“Yeah,” Mary Jane brushed off, as though it was no big deal, “you can do that, you know.”

“...you can?” Elle asked, and there was a hopefulness in her voice that caught her off-guard. Mary Jane smiled that knowing, Mary Jane smile of hers and shook her head fondly at her friend.

“ _Duh_ ,” she responded, as though it was simple, “let me tell you about my Uncle Tom.”

Uncle Tom, as it turned out, had been born Aunt Susan, and Elle is blown away by this realization that simply up and changing your very identity was something you could _do_.

“It’s kinda like acting,” Mary Jane reasoned, “just, y’know, more _permanent_.”

Elle Parker had thought about being a lot of things. An astrophysicist, a president, a costume designer―Mary Jane capitalized on her sewing skills for all of her drama purposes―and so much more. Never had she imagined being an actor.

But somehow, it fits.

“I’m a boy,” Elle whispered to _himself_ in the middle of the night, in a completely silent bedroom, with nobody but the moon to hear _him._ “I’m a boy.” He repeated it, over and over, to himself, until a grin he hadn’t grinned since he was six and shaking Harry Osborn’s hand for the first time crossed his face and the _boy_ drifted to sleep.

The middle school drama department needs help with costumes, and Mary Jane eagerly enlists Elle, who supposes he owes his red-haired friend for the help along the way. For someone so smart, he sure took an awful long time to realize things.

Being a boy, to Elle, just made _sense_.

It was as though, throughout his whole life, there had been a piece of the puzzle missing, something that was just out of reach that would shine a light on his whole world and turn it upside-down.

There’s only one other boy in the costume department―but because Elle is still _acting_ , pretending to be someone he isn’t, the other boy isn’t aware of his male companion―named Eugene Thompson. He’s only there because his teacher threatened to suspend him, Eugene claims, but Elle sees the precision with which he weaves the needle through ripped costumes and knows that he’s there only because he _wants_ to be.

“I won’t tell,” Elle promised after plopping down next to the other boy, “your secret’s safe with me, Eugene.”

“Flash,” he corrected with a shrug.

“Parker.”

And, just like that, Elle Parker found  _himself_ with another friend.

* * *

“Have you chosen a new name?” Mary Jane asked one day after rehearsal, her legs swinging off the ledge of the stage alongside Elle’s as the two of them waited for Ben Parker to pick them up.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Elle admitted, somewhat abashedly.

He was angry at his parents for leaving, of course, so suddenly, and then dying before he could even process his abandonment. He had cut his hair off in a fit of rage because it reminded him of his mother, exchanged glasses for contacts as soon as he was physically able to remove the ghost of his father, had shed every single article of clothing they had given him, outgrown and unused, and donated them.

He wasn’t sure, though, if he could give up the name they’d given him.

“You don’t have to,” Mary Jane added, almost as an afterthought, “I think my Uncle Tom said that he has a friend named Jacob who’s a girl, and that her name is still Jacob just ‘cos she likes it.”

“I don’t think Elle fits,” he admitted after a while with a shrug, “it’s just… hard.”

“We can figure it out together,” Mary Jane assured him, “you and me.”

His mind wanders to something that Harry had told him, once.

_You and me, Parker, like the lost boys in Neverland, we’ll make our way together._

Elle was very much lost and just wanted to fly, far, far away, to that second star to the right where boys ran free and girls were no more than a whisper on the wind.

Peter Parker was born on the edge of a middle-school stage on a chilly February evening with his new best friend by his side.

Now he just had to figure out how to tell other people.

“That’s cool,” Flash accepted after Peter told him, sweaty-palmed and nearing the point of hyperventilation, attention mostly dedicated to the homework he hadn’t been able to complete yet, “hey, Peter, can you help me with this? I don’t really understand math and you’re a nerd.”

His acceptance was easy, which confused Peter to no end but also delighted him immensely. Other than Flash and Mary Jane, he didn’t really have anybody he wanted to tell that was important.

Except for his aunt and uncle.

Peter couldn’t recall a point where he’d been more nervous in his entire life. He sat Ben and May Parker down on the couch on a Thursday afternoon after dinner―his aunt’s meatloaf, which was the one thing she prepared that tasted like cardboard in your mouth, everything else she made was fantastic―with sweaty palms and a heartbeat that raced so quickly he was certain he was going to have a heart attack.

Mary Jane was at the ready next-door in case Peter needed to flee and cry somewhere, though she’d been certain that the two of them would take the news well. Peter wasn’t so sure.

“I’m a boy,” he finally said, after a few minutes about rambling about needing to tell them something, and there’s a long moment of silence and Peter wanted to cry.

“Oh sweetheart,” May sighed, pulling him into a tight hug as the tears finally spilled over.

“We’ve known you were a boy since the week you were three and put your father’s shaving cream all over yourself trying to grow a beard like him,” Ben told him as he joined in on the family hug, “we were just waiting for you to figure it out.”

“You aren’t mad?” Peter whispered, somewhat brokenly.

“Of course we aren’t mad!” May responded. “You’re our _nephew_ , but you’re more like our _son_ , and we wouldn’t never, _ever_ stop loving you.”

“Do you have a new name you’d like us to call you?” Ben asked, after Peter’s tears had subsided.

“I thought,” Peter began timidly, “that you might be upset that I wanted to change my name, because I’ve already gotten rid of so many things that my parents gave me.”

“Son,” Ben started, in the way he usually started speeches of life importance and lessons that Peter had to think about for a day or two before fully understanding, “names are like gifts. They’re given to you, and you aren’t obligated to like them, or use them. You’ve simply outgrown the gift your parents gave you, but by being authentically yourself, that’s the greatest gift you could give in return.”

“Peter,” he finally told them, after a few more long minutes of crying, “my name is Peter.’

The Parkers have never been wealthy, not by any means.

But Ben picks up more jobs, and May works double shifts, and together they saved enough money for a brand-new birth certificate and all the necessary legal fees. They hang the certificate above Peter’s bed, alongside his science awards and next to his giant poster of Albert Einstein sticking his tongue out.

_Peter Benjamin Parker._

Ben had cried when Peter softly declared he wanted to make his second name after the most important man in his life, and May had captured a picture of the two of them in a tight embrace that goes on a frame on Peter’s bedside table.

Puberty hits, and along with it comes trembling waves of dysphoria. Despite their support, Ben and May know that they can’t afford for their nephew to see a gender therapist, or start on hormones, and even a binder is out of the price range for them, who live from paycheck to paycheck.

Mary Jane marches him to her room for measurements, and before Peter can protest, she’s ordered him his first binder―and a second that he later learns Flash paid for―and Peter cried when she presented it to him, citing that yes, she’d take the title of _best best friend ever_ right about then.   

He’d been ready to give it to her, but then, just like everyone else, Mary Jane leaves.

A scholarship to a private arts high school three hours upstate, too good of an opportunity to pass up, and even provided free boarding. Peter couldn’t be angry about it―shouldn’t be, at least, but he couldn’t help but feel somewhat betrayed―because acting was Mary Jane’s _dream_. And, as she had explained to it once to him, sometimes reaching your dreams was hard.

 _You and me are gonna have a rough time out there, Petey,_ she had said, _a black girl and a trans boy out there in the world trying to find their way and make some paper? With people supporting an orange? We’re gonna have to learn to fight, the two of us._

“I’ll call you all the time,” she promised. Harry had made a similar promise, but Peter hadn’t heard from him in _years_.

It was just him and Flash Thompson in their entrance to Midtown High.

In another world, Flash might have been Peter’s bully, but here, he was his greatest friend. Students who leered at Peter or called him mean words under their breath that Peter wouldn’t dare repeat, it was Flash who stepped in and threw around his weight.

By the end of their first quarter of freshman year, he’s been suspended twice and knocked out three students, but Flash privately admits that the great, beaming Peter-Parker smiles are well worth it.

Peter Parker was fifteen years old when he’s bitten by a radioactive spider trying to sneak a look at his latest crush.

Peter Parker was fifteen years old when his Uncle Ben dies.

He was fifteen, and much too young to have suffered so greatly.

Always too young.

He’d lost a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, and now an uncle.

He was fifteen when Tony Stark came barging into the home that he lived in with his aunt, quieter than it had been in years with the crushing absence of one very important member, and turned his life upside down.

“An internship?” Aunt May might have lost her husband, her best friend, but that wouldn’t stop her for being excited for her nephew.

Peter, of course, hadn’t signed up for an internship, but Tony Stark had eaten his Aunt May’s meatloaf, so he supposed he owed him at least the chance to explain himself. _Web design_ , Tony had said, and in that brief, panicked moment, Peter knew he’d been found out.

He was talking to Tony Stark, of _course_ the man knew he was the new masked menace around town. Tony Stark knew _everything_.

Iron Man slaps down a scathing copy of _The Daily Bugle_ with a picture of a hooded figure swinging around from building-top to building-top, and despite the less-than-kind article detailing how he should be squashed like, well, a bug, Peter can’t help the blinding grin that spreads across his face at the title, right at the headline.

_SPIDERMAN: MASKED MENACE._

Spider- _man_.

* * *

 

Peter was fifteen years old, a boy still, when Tony Stark dragged him across the world to fight in a battle he wasn’t a part of, and Peter’s thrilled because _how many_ fifteen years old could say they went toe-to-toe with _Captain America?_

Only him.

Tony Stark kept him on at Stark Industries as an intern, though, for both web design _and_ super secret superhero stuff, and Peter found himself with half of a broken team that he could now call family.

Natasha had stared at him for a long moment before she spoke a soft word in russian, _pauchok_ , or something, Peter wasn’t the best at Russian, and taken him under her wing. Tony complained about his little science buddy being taken from him, but Natasha fixed him with a look and he quelled.

Mary Jane wasn’t there to buy his binders anymore, but with the pay that comes with working at Stark Industries provided, Peter didn’t need anyone else to buy him things anymore. That fact, however, certainly didn’t stop the Avengers from doing it.

Natasha took him shopping and swapped their credit cards when she was sure the boy wasn’t looking―his spidey sense kept him aware though, take _that_ , Natasha!―and Peter had cried when Tony mentioned, offhandedly, that being a part of the Avengers meant he had access to SHIELD doctors, and he could start on testosterone (the dosage had to be a lot higher due to his healing factor, but, together, they made it work).

Somehow, Peter managed being a high-school student _and_ a superhero, and grinned stupidly every time Flash showed up wearing a spiderman t-shirt because the boy would _flip_ if he knew the tiny boy he protected from bullies was New York’s resident masked menace―the title wasn’t entirely appropriate, anymore, as public support for him grew. He was a part-time Avenger, but mainly local, and Spiderman soon became just as big of a part of New York as _Pizza Rat_ and terrible traffic.

He was sixteen when he finally plucked up the courage to talk to Gwen Stacy―Tony and Natasha had teased him endlessly about his crush and his inability to act on it―and sixteen when he took down a giant lizard _entirely by himself_ ―Tony and Natasha would never forgive themselves for not being there to help, the Avengers had been out doing global avenging things―and if Peter had to choose which moment of his sixteenth year was scarier: facing a giant lizard that used to be his father’s coworker or kissing Gwen Stacy, he’d have definitely picked the latter of the two options.

Gwen and Flash found out about his web-slinging activities at the same time.

“My boyfriend is a hero,” Gwen proclaimed proudly, before she kissed him on the cheek, and Peter’s heart swelled in the familiar way it always did when Gwen said _boyfriend_.

“Dude!” Flash exclaimed. “I have your _action figure._ What the fuck?”

Sixteen was a year full of change, especially when a certain Steve Rogers made his way back to the Avengers tower, and a broken team was made whole again.

It was the year, apparently, of dramatic returns, because two people Peter had missed so desperately somehow found their way back to him.

“What can I say?” Mary Jane―who now went by MJ, because _Mary Jane is a mouthful, Peter_ ―shrugged when she slung an arm over Peter’s shoulder, “I missed Stan’s hot dog stand. And besides, I was about ready to strangle myself stuck in a school filled with stuck-up white girls. Plus―” her grin was wicked “―I’ve already got a gig, a tv show based here, so they can suck my entire―”

Gwen and MJ got along like a house on fire, which was mildly concerning for Peter, who now had to worry about _two_ girls teasing the living daylights out of him.

Harry Osborn showed up next, just as smug and pretentious as the last time Peter had seen him, ninety percent hairgel and ten percent rich kid, and it was as though he’d never left.

Peter had been nervous to come out to him. This was his childhood best friend, after all, his partner-in-crime. They had broken the desk of _Norman Osborn_ together, and that wasn’t a situation one could easily escape.

“I have to tell you something,” Peter told him quietly.

“Give it to me straight, Parker,” Harry grinned, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped against the table and his hands folded behind his head.

“I’m a boy.”

“Well no shit, dude,” Harry rolled his eyes, “I’ve known you were a boy since the first day we met, y’know. People don’t just say ‘ _I’m not a gross girl. I’m a Parker’_ and not be a boy, that’s not how the world works. I thought you were gonna tell me something interesting, like the fact that you’re Spiderman, and all.”

Peter choked on his water and Harry had to pound on his back until he regained the ability to breathe, before teasing him mercilessly about it. Harry was too smart for his own good, Peter decided, but he wouldn’t have him any other way.

In another world, when Harry told Peter he was sick, Peter would have let him descend into madness.

In this one, though, Peter worked with Tony Stark until his brother was healthy again.

Peter Parker had lost a lot of people in his life.

A mother, who had kind eyes that stared back at Peter in the mirror every morning and gentle fingers that tangled their way through his hair. A father who had told Peter that he was going to be great one day, who had made the spiders who turned Peter into the young man he was today. An uncle who had told him that he would always be loved, who had signed the papers declaring him to be _Peter Benjamin_ with such pride in his eyes and love in his soul.

Peter Parker had gained even more, though.

A brother who rolled his eyes at him and called him stupid, but who also had loved Peter more fiercely than anyone had, after he’d lost his whole world. A sister who forced him to run lines with him, who had bought him his first binder, who had helped him figure out who he was. A protector who thought first with his fists and then with his brain, who couldn’t figure out math but knew how to patch up a super suit without a problem. A girlfriend smarter than even Peter, who ran gentle fingers though his hair as they cuddled up on her couch, a best friend and soulmate in one, who made him feel so, so very loved.

A whole gang of superheroes, misfits in their own way, who fought and made dumb mistakes but gave Peter a second home, funded his transition, and nurtured him on his path on becoming a fully-fledged hero.

And at the end of every day, Peter Parker came home to an aunt who made meatloaf that was too dry and hugs that were filled with the most warmth, to a bedroom with a poster of Albert Einstein next to a framed birth certificate, and a picture of an uncle and his boy hugging by the windowsill.

Names were funny things.

People who don't even know you yet choose just one, sometimes two, names that you had to live up to the rest of your life, predetermining your character based on namesakes and hidden meanings.

Names were powerful.

New York named Spiderman.

It's okay, though, because Spiderman named himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen some transboy Peter Parker fics where his deadname is Penny or some variant and I think that's based off of the assumption that every trans person chooses their new name to be similar to their deadname. 
> 
> In my experience, this hasn't been true at all. I myself was blessed with a deadname with a pretty androgynous nickname (Sam), and two of my close friends, one who is a transboy and one who is gender-nonconforming, chose names vastly different from their deadnames. I dunno, giving Peter such a different birthname feels right. 
> 
> Hope you liked this! I've been knee-deep in Spidey fic recently so I wanted to try my hand at writing some. 
> 
> Come hang out on tumblr, [danaryas](http://www.danaryas.tumblr.com), comments and kudos greatly appreciated, as always! 
> 
> Have a great day :)


End file.
